The Glamorous Horror of Covering a Premiere
Going to a gala movie premiere as a journalist can be an even worse chore than actually sitting through the movie.
If you're lucky enough to get a spot on the red carpet, you're pushed and jostled by barbarians from obscure media outlets like shamelessstalker.net and totalmoron.org, who are desperate to get soundbites like "This prequel was a labor of love" from people best known as supporting voiceovers on Adult Swim.
I avoid all that, preferring to look for bites at the after party, when the stars are a little looser (i.e., tipsy) and more interesting.
Alas, some of them refuse to speak to press once the movie's over. They've already done all that before the screening started, and now they just want to relax, get smashed to the titties, and plan their next career move.
As for the ones that WILL talk, you have to go through three hoops of approval to even get 90 seconds with them.
The publicist for the event has to OK you.
Then the publicist for the movie has to decide you're worthy.
Then the star's personal publicist has to chime in their two cents too.
You have to audition for this privilege more than said star did to get the part!
And I usually get a three-for-three--a perfect score of stuck-up flacks saying "No!"
At which point I'm torn between screeching "Why the fuck did you invite me in the first place?" and "Oh, really? Well, I had no real interest in talking to the Duff sisters anyway!"
It's really galling--they beg you to come, then act horrified when you do--but I'll keep doing it because occasionally you strike gold, get good copy, and even like the freakin' movie.
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